by Rose Armstrong

In the morning, as I pour my glass of milk,
I can’t help but think of you and your pure white skin
That seems to glisten when the sun hits it and
Begins to burn in such a way that milk would never
Do. As the coldness of my drink enters my mouth,
I think about how cold you are to me and the fact
That you leave me shivering for more.

In anger, I shatter my cup against the floor
And I hope that when you come home again,
You’ll step on my crushed glass and my spilled milk
And feel the pain you have inflicted on me,
So maybe I can finally be strong against you.
And may the shards of glass leave scars on
Your milk white skin.